


Shootin’ for the Stars When I Couldn’t Make a Killing

by deathishauntedbyhumans



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Episode: s2e10 The Golden Spear, Gen, Wordcount: 100-500
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-01 10:42:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18798730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathishauntedbyhumans/pseuds/deathishauntedbyhumans
Summary: Being launched into space when you’re supposed to be going on a relaxing vacation sucks. Like, a lot.





	Shootin’ for the Stars When I Couldn’t Make a Killing

**Author's Note:**

> Hello it’s almost midnight and I have a lot of Feelings. 
> 
> This is dedicated to Nyx bc they experienced Feelings with me and I definitely cried about Ducktales while voice chatting with them. 
> 
> Title stolen from Panic! At the Disco’s _High Hopes_.

“Nononono!” The hatch seals over Donald’s head, narrowly avoiding smacking him in the head. For a second, just a second, he’s sure that it’s a joke Della is playing on him. This seems like something she would do; in an instant, all the years spent mourning her slip away, and they’re just Donald and Della again, two siblings against the world.

They hate each other sometimes, but they _have_ each other. Always.

The rocket’s engine roars to life, and Donald crashes hard back into reality. He can practically _feel_ himself molting. Even if this ship had, inexplicably, been carrying his sister —because this _is,_ inexplicably, the Spear of Selene— she isn’t here now. Donald is alone.

He’s alone, and he’s on a rocketship that’s blasting itself into space in the immediate future. Sixty seconds, to be precise. 

Panic sets in quickly. Donald swipes at the controls, fear-numbed fingers slipping and sliding over the console. Thirty seconds.  Nothing stops the countdown. Eight seconds. If anything, his efforts only seem to shorten it. Three seconds.

He’s thrown back against the seat when the rocket gives a jerky lurch, and he can only hold on for dear life as it blasts off from its prone position on the ground. He hits the tops of trees and the ground a couple of times before he’s properly airborne, and he’s probably screaming the entire time. At this point, everything is happening too quickly for him to adjust or focus.

One might think that living with his boys for ten years has managed to keep Donald on his toes for any and all eventualities. One would, of course, be absolutely incorrect if they did think that for even a second. Living with the boys has sharpened his ability to react to threats that involve them; everything else is a bit of a blur.

Donald likes to try to think on the positive side of most situations, despite his overwhelming probability in life to err on the side of the negative when the excrement hit the fan. 

 _There is no positive side here,_ Donald thinks grimly to himself when he breaks through Earth’s atmosphere. He doesn’t know how to fly a rocket. That’d been Della’s project, back in the day.

It’s all he can do to strap himself firmly into the seat and grip the sides as tightly as he can with his gaze firmly locked on the sight of the slowly-growing moon in front of him. His only comfort is, for the first time in eleven years, the thought of Della. _If she found her way home, the boys don’t even need me anymore. Maybe… this is for the best._

**Author's Note:**

> Oof.
> 
> Kudos/comments are love! Come scream at me on tumblr @deathishauntedbyhumans


End file.
